


This is okay.

by Fek



Category: Naruto
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, if you like to know what veins on a dick look like, its really vague, this story isnt for you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-07-27 02:58:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7600774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fek/pseuds/Fek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn’t want this. He never wanted this. This man is the enemy, this man would rip the soul from his defenseless student in a heartbeat. He doesn’t want to give him this intimacy. He has to bite back the panic that wells in chest now that he’s conscious. But as he maps the terrain of Obito’s scarred face with his bare fingers, he is reminded of everything that is his fault. Obito pulls him by the hair and when he looks into those somber eyes, it’s dangerous logic that surfaces.</p>
<p>"If this helps make up for everything I’ve cost you, you can have me a hundred times over."</p>
<p>A fan continuation of Stalker by SweetDreamsAreMadeOfNaruto. So fanfiction of fanfiction. Nice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is okay.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SweetDreamsAreMadeOfNaruto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetDreamsAreMadeOfNaruto/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Stalker](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7371733) by [SweetDreamsAreMadeOfNaruto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetDreamsAreMadeOfNaruto/pseuds/SweetDreamsAreMadeOfNaruto). 



> http://archiveofourown.org/works/7371733
> 
> Critique is always welcome. Bonus points if you get the flower references.

The sudden presence of a familiar smell and chakra buzz materializes behind him, and lips press against his ear lobe. The hair on Kakashi's neck stands up and his fingers twitch-- only slightly.  
  
"You called, _Kakashi_ ?"   
  
It was the same voice he expected, the same one that he couldn't believe was real. But once the impossible is eliminated, what's left, however improbable, must be true.   
  
It's strange, matching that voice up with the scattered and hazy recollection of the previous night, and the unchanged voice of a preteen ghost. It's quiet and much deeper than he expected, and both serious and taunting at the same time. Somehow it's relieving yet painful.   
  
"What do you want?" He purposefully keeps his voice a stern drawl. It is essential to remain composed-- last night being a demonstration of what happens in weakness. It doesn't matter that his muscles tense eagerly, or that he has to work to keep his breathing level. His quickened heart rate can go fuck itself.   
  
Behind him, Obito lets out an amused puff of air and kisses the covered nape of his neck. A shiver runs up his spine, but his mind goes more along the lines of _wow, this kid never stopped being irksome._   
  
"You wanted to talk?" Obito speaks with an unfamiliar lilt. Somehow it's pulling him in but making his gut twist with anger and guilt.   
  
"Not here." While the memorial stone is sacred and silent, it doesn't mean no one else ever visits. Anywhere in the village should be a hazard really, but this clearly isn't the first time Obito has lurked in the shadows undetected. They can make something work.   
  
"Very well." A hand just barely brushes his hip before every sense of the presence disappears.   
  
Kakashi is utterly alone. Yet again.   
  
He brushes his fingers against the rough stone, against the name carved there. By now his sense of touch has memorized the motion, just as his mind has been rebuilt to honour the fragmented idea of a ghost boy who never grew up.   
  
Except that now, he apparently has grown up.   
  
Kakashi runs his fingers through his hair, gripping the roots. He pays his respects in silence, but now it feels like he's paying respects to his own imagination rather than the past.   
  
When he turns to leave, he feels more hollow than he's felt in a while.

 

* * *

  
  
The first thing he had noticed when he woke up was a swollen lip, under his mask. It was accompanied by the feeling of something wrong. Then he sat up and noticed a whole lot more, like bruises on his wrists and the smell of something he could place immediately. Denial, of course. Always use denial when your dead childhood comrade was apparently in your room. He had shaken the feeling and opted for a shower.   
  
_He had gotten home, undressed, been too tired to shower, and fallen asleep the second his head touched his mattress. He dreamed of that particular man. A hazy and abnormal dream._

The watery introspection only raised more questions and holes in his memory. Dreams didn't leave hickeys.

When had seen his reflection, covered in scratches and bruises he most certainly did not get in yesterday's battle, he decided to look closer.   
  
He touched his cut lip, and remembers--   
  
_"Does it hurt?"_   
  
_"I feel nothing."_   
  
_He is shoved back and the kisses and touches are rough and hard, bordering on painful._   
  
_But if it was painful, he deserved it._   
  
\--he remembers not enough.   
  
He laid back on his bed and slowly the memories came trickling back. It was like swiping at comic trails in the sky, or catching glow flies with no net. Slow. Inefficient.   
  
_"I don't fucking care, friendkiller."_   
  
Like a catalyst, everything from there rushes into place, disorganized and chaotic. The physical sensations. The mental anguish.   
  
The emotional torture.   
  
His body froze as he was over swept by grief and guilt and regret. It curled like cold rope around his limbs and bound him, and finally settled in his heart. He was drowning in tar and sinking from the weight in his chest.   
  
He did move, however, when he realized he might be laying in his own dried sperm. 

 

* * *

  
  
He closes the door behind him and Obito appears at his kitchen table, where he promptly sits, crossing his leg over his knee. He sends a gaze that means _shut up and behave._ He doesn't know how much of that got lost in translation, given his communication with one eye. If the rogue-nin acts up, he'd rather not deal with the consequences right now.   
  
However, he needs answers.   
  
"How long have you been watching me?" Kakashi knows that it's not coincidence he was attacked (he'll call it that for now) at his lowest. Considering Obito's ability to completely erase any evidence of himself in a heartbeat, it's highly likely that he has been watching Kakashi for an indefinite period of time. Days. Months. Maybe even years.   
  
Instead of answering, he plucks an empty salt shaker from the table. "Who can say? I've been here about 20 minutes now."   
  
_"How long."_ He grits through his teeth.   
  
Obito chuckles behind his mask. "Since it became convenient."   
  
Kakashi sits.   
  
It's irritating when someone is as round about and unspecific as you. But then Obito narrows his visible eye slightly and the copy-nin reads people enough to know that smugness can only mean a very long time.   
  
Years it is.   
  
Well, this could turn either very dangerous or very weird.   
  
"How did you get into the village? How is it you erase yourself?" As if the enemy would tell him secrets.   
  
"Jutsu." He waves the question away. If Kakashi didn't know he was in terrible condition, he would be willing to kick the man in front of him for being an ass. As it is, he merely maintains his composure.   
  
"What is your goal?"   
  
"Ultimately? Not relevant to you." Comes the biting response.   
  
"Then why are you watching me?"   
  
There's a stretch of silence as Obito drops the salt shaker, lost in thought. He cocks his head to one side before looking Kakashi dead in the eye. "Habit; a bit of fun."   
  
Fun. A jounin and ex-ANBU captain being used for fun. It's both unsettling and amusing, if you have a dark sense of humour.   
  
Even so, the word "used" echoes in his head. Someone taking his unwilling body and forcing things from him. To be a tool-- a killing machine-- again makes his skin prickle, but that isn't what Obito seems to want. Obito wants to use him a different way, and it makes his blood run cold and fills him with disgust.   
  
"Why not just find a brothel?" He tries to hold back his scathing tone.   
  
Obito considers this. Then he walks away. Kakashi doesn't think he wants to follow him to the bedroom, but he does.

 

* * *

 

  
Obito has enough gentlemanliness about him to hold the door, and close it as Kakashi takes a hesitant seat on the bed.   
  
"You changed your sheets."   
  
Of course he changed the sheets. They were disgusting. Who wants to chance lying in a mess? One should never lie in bodily fluids of any kind--   
  
_Especially not blood. Blood that stains white to red and splatters on the ground and your clothing in morbid decoration. Red, warm, sticky blood that's spilled up your wrists and between your fingers_ \--   
  
He pushes the memory away; now is not the time.

Obito stands in front of him, tall and commanding like he’s some sort of god. It makes sense, considering how devoted Kakashi was to his name; he worshipped a memory the way the hopeless worship religion. But he takes away the orange swirl and the face behind it isn’t radiant like a god at all. It’s scarred, haunted, and bitter beyond words. In his eyes, there is only darkness.

“You asked what I want.” A gloved hand moves to Kakashi’s hair, and he notices himself wanting to lean into the touch. He doesn’t.

In response, Kakashi makes a sound between a grunt and a hum, and stares into the eye that matches his. His own eye, hidden, burns into his socket like a ball of lead through stomach muscles. Obito drinks in the image of him, expression slowly contorting to anger that twists his mouth into a scowl.

“I can never forgive you.” He’s taken aback by the slow, sharp tone, but he agrees with the words. He feels the same words repeating in the back of his mind every other night, when he wakes up to wash his hands exactly twelve times, remembering how the red smudges he would imagine used to be blurred with tears. He felt the words pressing at his temples on the days where he couldn’t muster the strength to visit the memorial stone. He felt the words as a visceral sickness when he reached his 1000th kill: a child. The guilt that has crushed him for over half his life only intensified with age, like fine wine made of orphan tears and fermented grief. Every failure of his life has been added to the concoction. But there has always been the one fateful burden that would not be lifted by any amount of alcohol: the time he left his precious teammate to rot under a boulder behind enemy lines.

How could he apologize for everything-- anything? How could he possibly summate and express all of his sorrow, when it was his entire being? How could he assume the right to apologize, when he didn’t deserve the breath it would take?

“I know.” He finally says.

Obito’s face takes on a pained expression (Why? Kakashi is the murderer here.) and his hand yanks down his mask. In a heartbeat, there is warmth pressed against him and there are lips on his; teeth as well, tugging and pulling softly as he is pushed back into the bed.

A blurry memory from the night before surfaces, but this time it’s Kakashi who’s pretending he doesn’t feel a thing; that all of this sentimental build up isn’t what’s making every kiss strike a deep chord within him.

With his eyes closed, it’s easy to imagine that this is just some foreign man he picked up because he was having a bad day. Obito’s signature breathing patterns can be ignored (he breathes out a little too hard and in a little too deep), and the way his real hand’s scratch marks leave one trail slightly off can be brushed to the back of his mind (his one pinkie is bent outwards from a bone healed wrong). Even the familiar scent that he’s drowning in can be pushed away.

But as soon as his single black eye opens, the illusion of his free will is shattered.

As much as his heart is leaping in it’s ice cage at the fact Obito is warm and breathing and _alive,_ his mind is far from sedated. Even though the rogue-nin’s lips at his throat are coaxing docile sounds from his mouth and sending light tremors down his spine, he can’t ignore the beast of reason in his forehead.

He doesn’t want this. He never wanted this. This man is the enemy, this man would rip the soul from his defenseless student in a heartbeat. He doesn’t want to give him this _intimacy._ He has to bite back the panic that wells in chest now that he’s conscious.

His dead comrade sheds his robes to reveal sickly white skin and his own deep blue shirt his tugged over his head, and his body and circulatory system jump. His heart thuds in his chest, his breathing becomes light panting, and his blood rushes to his groin. Obito rearranges them onto the bed more, pinning one wrist above his head, and Kakashi threads his free hand into the soft hair at the back of the criminal’s head. The kiss goes from sensual to vicious, and a mess of saliva risks falling onto his chin. Kakashi keeps kissing him. He trails down his neck when Obito pulls away, and he shudders when he hears an approving groan.

The self-disappointment and disgust still throbs loudly, but as he maps the terrain of Obito’s scarred face with his bare fingers, he is reminded of everything that is his fault. Obito pulls him by the hair and when he looks into those somber eyes, it’s dangerous logic that surfaces.

_If this helps make up for everything I’ve cost you, you can have me a hundred times over._

His hesitation begins to evaporate in the heat of the moment.

After all, if anyone has claims to his body, it’s Obito.

He’s covered in sweat and bruises and forming hickeys as Obito sucks yet another into the pale skin of his chest. He really can’t help the strained sound that escapes his throat. He can’t help his fingers clutching at his fresh sheets, either. His hips jerk upwards of their own accord, and when his hip is grinded against in return, he isn’t even mentally present enough to stop himself from reacting.

He winces as fingers are pushed into him: warm covered in cold and slippery lubricant, wriggling and not uncomfortable. He pulls himself closer, because that’s all he wants in the end. To never have to leave a friend again.

Maybe this can act as a band-aid for both of their shattered, war torn souls.

Obito’s fingers press into his ribs; pressing into existing bruises, colouring them a shade darker. Kakashi winces into his collarbone as he shifts to accommodate him. He’s done this a thousand times, but never before Obito has he felt so vulnerable during sex. If he wanted to rip out the Sharingan he lightly traces, he could. If he wanted to make Kakashi hurt; forget-me-not and begonia coloured marks against asphodel skin, he could.

But he doesn’t yet. And perhaps that’s what terrifies Kakashi.

He’s pliant in his grip as they move together. Pleasure is washing over him in waves and outweighing the strain on his already exhausted body.

He knows he’s lost.

But what else is new?

Kakashi was defeated at the first sound of his voice: too deep to be a teenaged ghost’s, and too vivid to be a memory from the night before. He was already metaphorically pinned beneath the rogue-nin when lips pressed against his earlobe in front of an empty grave.

Their movements are fast and violent and unforgiving, but he deserves worse. The red welling up through scratches isn’t even close to the price he should be paying. Instead of paying with his blood or his body, he should be paying with his life.

He should have been the one to be crushed and bleeding under a boulder, eventually captured.

His regrets threaten to strangle him again. He chokes back whatever miserable sound came bubbling to the top.

Obito catches his lips, sloppy and desperate, and he is brought back to the present. There are moans echoing in his ears, and he devours every one that Obito sighs into the kiss. Even if just for a moment, he forgets. He forgets and temporarily he isn’t an empty shell of a broken man.

It feels like fire is licking at his arms and legs and curling in his abdomen as they near. His wrists are jerking in Obito’s grip and his eyes are squeezed shut. He breath is catching as the heat burns in his mind. Obito growls to look at him and he can barely force his eye open enough to make out an unreadable expression, something between hatred and regret and caring.

“Obi...to….”

He watches, only half aware as Obito comes apart above him. In return, he feels a white hot tsunami shudder through him as his muscles spasm with the rush of the crescendo. But instead of the usual post-orgasmic haze, Kakashi feels raw and exposed, like he was used as the unwilling subject of a vivisection. Obito collapses on his shoulder, breath hot and heavy. Unconsciously, his fingers play with dark hair.

A moment of silence lets them settle. It lets Kakashi slow down and think about everything he’s ruined.

It lets him think about how he just betrayed himself and possibly his entire village.

“You’re pathetic.” Obito says as if on cue. His deep voice is barely above a whisper. Kakashi feels his eye twitch to reflect the knife his heart felt. On one level, he agrees. Because he is a jounin, and one of Konoha’s most prized shinobi, reduced to a willing sex doll for the entertainment of a foe. On another level, he is just surprised it still hurt as much as it did. He didn’t know he could be cut farther then he is now, when he can’t move for all of his self-hatred and guilt.

On a third level, he wants to curl into Obito and take time to breathe, because he still finds comfort in his friend.

It doesn’t matter how fucked up that is.

Distantly, he is aware that Obito has gotten up and dressed. But the jounin is trapped by the weight of his limbs, stuck to the bed in a mess.

“I hate you.” He spits.

Kakashi hums.

_So do I._

His eyes close, and he is dimly receptive to the dent in the mattress beside his head followed by a soft touch just above his hairline-- something like a kiss, he supposes.

Of course it’s not though. He isn’t that stupid.

Just before Obito stands, Kakashi grabs at where he thinks his hand might be, mustering the energy to press his lips to the palm. The gesture feels familiar, as if he’s done it before. The line of Obito’s silhouette is slightly blurry when he opens his eye again.

He smiles fondly as it disappears because when it comes down to it, he is fond.

He will always be fond of his friend.

Exhausted; physically, mentally, and emotionally, he closes his eye again, and all he sees is lightning and swords splattered with innocent red. Normally he just stays up. But with tired eyes, a tired mind, a tired soul, he slept anyway.


End file.
